


Blood For Poppies

by LWTIS



Series: SP K2 Week [5]
Category: South Park
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, sp k2 week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 19:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15517125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWTIS/pseuds/LWTIS
Summary: “Could you imagine how that’d feel? Being killed by unrequited love?”Tongue weighed down by petals, still reeling from the memories of suffocating just the night before, all Kenny can offer is a weak chuckle in response.Written for the SP K2 Week. //Day 5 - Danger.//





	Blood For Poppies

“What if it's an immortal?”

The teacher’s hand stills mid-motion, the question clearly catching her off-guard.

“...I'm sorry?”

“What if it's an - nghhh - immortal?” Tweek repeats his question with a sense of urgency. “Are they immune to the disease? Or would they just get - ack! - stuck in a cycle?”

A murmur runs through the class, prompting deep frowns and alarmed expressions.   
The chalk wobbles between the teacher’s fingers. “...when you say immortals, you mean…?”

“Vampires.” the blonde clarifies with a shudder. “Or just - cryptids that cannot die naturally.”

This is obviously not the sort of question the young lady was trained to answer during the annual compulsory class health awareness class. But regardless, she is now faced with a whole class of ten year olds, staring at her with various degrees of anticipation.  
To her credit, she at least considers it.

“I imagine if they’re capable of feeling emotions, they would not be immune to the Hanahaki Disease.” she replies eventually. “Which is why it’s very important that you recognise the symptoms early - “

The class buzzes as everyone digests the new information. If Kenny tilts his head, he can see Tweek’s troubled expression across the room. On the desk to his right, Red is busy whispering to Bebe.

“ - so awful - how painful that would be? Killed by unrequited love when you cannot die?”

Kenny considers it.  
It wouldn't be so bad, he finally decides. If you couldn't die, that would just give you more chances to earn your beloved’s affections. To try again. And do it right.

\---

Little Kenny was a stunning optimist and _God,_ he missed him.

\---

He knew that love was intense.  
He knew that it was fierce, and hit with the intensity of a sledgehammer. Or a bus. He knew that love always _burned_ , with flames of passion, of jealousy, of longing. He knew _that_. He’s seen the movies. (The ones on the TV and the ones that got hidden under floorboards in a vain attempt to keep it away from his curious eyes. There was a whole different world of _love_ and _passions_ in those. )

He knew love could be destructive. That it could drive people to do insane things, or to endure daily terrors over and over again.  
(Screams and broken glass, vicious insults hurled through air thick with smoke. The same sentiments, with a slightly different flavour each day. All held together with stubborn, tired love.)  
He knew that.

Nobody told him that love was quiet.  
That it wasn’t always in grand declarations and lavish presents. No one sung songs about the boring, uneventful events that carried but a moment and didn’t linger long. (Not in the radios of South Park, at least.) No one told him that love snuck up on you, and the penny only dropped when you were immersed neck deep.  
It was the small things. Promises made, and promises kept. A secret that was only admitted to his ears. Insistent questions and worry masked under fussing on days when Kenny was sick. A constant presence, not always patient and accommodating but always willing to try.   

“Next month, it will be twelve years.”

There’s a rustle as Kyle turns his head to face Kenny, half a croissant dangling from between his lips. His cheeks are red from the wind and distinctively chipmunk-like.

“Hmmft?”

“Twelve years.” he repeats with a snigger. Naturally, he takes this chance to poke at Kyle’s cheeks until his hands get slapped away. “Since we all met in pre-school.”

Once his mouth is empty, Kyle lets out a low whistle. “ _Fuuuuck_.” he says in disbelief. “That’s crazy.”

“Right? More than half of our lives!”

“And now I feel old.” the redhead groans, aiming a halfhearted swat at his orange-clad friend. “Thanks.”

At the end of the road, the outline of the bus finally appears. In the distance, Kenny can hear hurried footsteps, echoed by Stan’s shouts.

“It’s weird, thinking there was a time in my life when I didn’t know you.” Kyle suddenly says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His eyes are uncharacteristically soft, lips curled in a smile to match. “I can’t imagine my life without you guys in it.”

\---

As they board the bus, the back of Kenny’s throat starts to itch.  
He makes a note to try and find something to fix his window with.

\---

“I _need_ to tell you a secret.”

Biting back a laugh, Kenny gives Kyle’s shoulders an encouraging squeeze, guiding him to the safety of an unoccupied sofa. The redhead slumps against the cushions like a rag doll, staring at the fairy lights strung along the ceiling in wonder.  
He was going to need to buy Bebe a present - for not only throwing the party, but for somehow convincing Kyle to try the punch. He has a shift in City Wok in a hour, and it’s going to be a an absolute bitch staying awake through it all - but getting to see Kyle Broflovski drunk off his wonderfully sculpted ass makes the whole thing worth it.  
There is an insistent tug at his sleeve. When their gazes meet, Kyle’s lips are pressed together in something that looks suspiciously like a pout.

“ _Kenny_.”

Grin stupidly huge under his hood, the blonde leans in closer. “I’m all ears, Ky. Hit me.”

Kyle nods seriously. His hat slips, already askew.

“Don’t tell anyone…” he begins, focused frown deep and much cuter than it has any business of being. “But _you_ ...are my _favourite_.”

Blue eyes widen - startled - Kenny’s heart giving an involuntary little skip.

“ _Kyle._ ” he whispers, managing to inject the right amount of scandalized in his tone. “What would Stan say?”

“Stan is my super best friend.” Kyle says with conviction. He tilts his head to the side, causing his hat to slip even further. “But you...you’re much...more reliable, Kenny. You’re always there when I need you. And you just...get it.”

Before he can utter anything in response, there’s a yawn. Kyle slumps against Kenny’s side easily, completely unaware of his hammering heart.  

“You won’t tell, will you?” he murmurs, eyes already fluttering shut. “You don’t tell people my secrets. You’re cool like that, Kenny.”

Curly red hair tickles Kenny’s cheek when he gingerly turns his head to the side. Anchored by a heavy, warm body, his senses assaulted by the scent of spiced punch and the familiar detergent from Kyle’s clothes, the blonde can only nod.   

“You got it, buddy.”

\---

Twenty seven hours later, Kyle’s disposition is radically different.

“I’m never, ever, ever drinking again.” he groans mournfully, words muffled into his gloves. “I can’t believe some people do this every week. Fuck.”

“People don’t usually go as hard as you did, Ky.” Kenny chimes in happily. Despite his whole body protesting against the lack of sleep, he’s got a bounce in his step. Every mention of the party sends a little flutter down his spine, flush with the memories.

“Shut up. Stop being so happy next to me.”

“Soooo grumpyyyy.” Kenny practically sings. He lets their shoulders bump together. “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me~”

Shoulders stiffen as Kyle slowly lifts his head. His eyes are bloodshot and guarded.

“What secrets?”

“...you know.” Kenny nudges him again, grin faltering when the other’s reaction remains the same. “...when we went to sit at the sofas, and you fell asleep?”

“...I barely remember anything from last night.”  

\---

He should be used to the used to it by now.  
Whether intertwined by a violent end to his life, or just by ridiculous circumstance, the result is always the same. As is the disappointment that comes alongside.  
He should be used to it. Indifferent.  
But for some reason, the stinging disappointment haunts him for the rest of the day.

\---

“Kenny, do you want a cough drop?”

“Hmm? I’m alright!”

“You sure? You sound kinda hoarse.”

“Eh, probably one too many dicks last night. Eyy, Kenny?”

“ _Shut the fuck up asshole!_ ”

Scratch. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Oh please. I’m not an _amateur_. Kyle, put the knife away.”

\---

Leslie Meyers is a perfectly lovely girl.  
She has a pretty face, stunning hair, a sweet smile. And she can benchpress people twice her size, when the situation calls for it.  
She’s a catch.  
So you can’t really blame Kyle for taking note when she starts lingering around him, with sweet words and fluttering eyelashes.  
Cannot blame him in the slightest.

\---

“What do you think, Kenny?”

“A lot of things! Surprising, I know.”

“Oh shut _up_. And I meant - about - _you know_ \- “

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“...I definitely think she’s flirting with you, Kyle.”

\---

It’s twenty past 2am the first time he lurches awake, unable to breathe.

Body twisting, his hands press over his mouth to muffle his coughing. Something is lodged in his throat.

_“I know you you've heard this last year, and the year before, children, but it's very important and bears repeating.”_

He'll wake the whole house. He cannot wake the whole house.

_The most common warning symptoms are itchy throats or shortage of breath under normal circumstances._

His body wretches forwards with the next wave of nausea, tumbling off the bed with a pained grunt. Something silky presses against his tongue. He manages to spit it out before doubling over with the next coughing fit.

_There might only be a few petals at first. In advanced stages of the disease, the patient will cough up whole flowers, sometimes accompanied by some blood._

He can barely breathe between the coughs, voice a horrible high-pitched hacking noise. Stumbling, he ducks inside his closet, pushing his way through the back and out into the garden.

_The most important thing to do is not to panic. Call for help._

The possums scatter at his sudden arrival, fleeing into the darkness. He stumbles forwards before dropping to his knees, body wracked by the ensuing convulsions. After what feels like an eternity, it’s expelled, allowing him to gasp for air.  
In his trembling palms, amongst the beads of blood and scattered bed of yellow petals, rests a mangled head of a daffodil.

_Make sure to keep any of the petals or flowers. They are very important to both the doctors and the counsellors when they're treating you._

He doesn't waste time trying to find a shovel. With shaky fingers, he claws at a loose patch of earth behind the car carcass, sweeping every last scrap of flower inside. Only once every scrap of evidence is covered by dirt does he stop breathe, the frigid night air raw against the inside of his throat.  
Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

_The most crucial thing is communication. In the majority of cases, the cause is perceived unrequited love._

Teeth sink into his lower lip painfully. A petal is still stuck to his fingers, clinging stubbornly to a patch of dried blood.    
He doesn’t notice the tears until they’re spilling down his cheeks, hot and unbearably salty.

 _Even if the object of your affections doesn't return your feelings, it grants you the sense of closure that will guide you to the path of recovery.  
_ _Communication prevents the rate of death by 85%.  
_ _Death is only unavoidable when you stay silent._

\---

It’s okay.  
It’ll be okay.  
He’s a realist. Feet firmly planted on the ground. He’s easygoing. He bounces back all the time, doesn’t he? He can handle this.  
It’ll be okay.

\---

It only gets worse.

He’s grateful for the hounding cold of the Colorado weather, as well as his signature parka. With the zip tugged all the way up, and a scarf wrapped around his neck, no one can witness the constant cascade of petals from bloodied lips.

\---

He first suffocates on a summer evening. The stars burn and twinkle high above him as he helplessly claws at his throat, desperately trying to draw in just a mouthful of air.  
Drowning in your own blood as branches pierce your lungs and encase your ribs is not a quick way to go.  
No one notices.

\---

“I told you this movie was a bad idea.” Bebe groans, tugging another tissue free and pressing it into the sobbing blonde’s hand.  

“It’s not _fair_. They tried so hard!” Butters manages. To his left, Kenny rubs his back placatingly.

“Yeah. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

“That’s just too sad.” he sniffles, eyes wet and morose. “Could you imagine how that’d feel? Being killed by unrequited love?”

Tongue weighed down by petals, still reeling from the memories of suffocating just the night before, all Kenny can offer is a weak chuckle in response.

\---

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth?!”

A gasp runs through the crowd, just as Kyle grabs onto his best friend’s arm, tugging him back. Opposite them, the class president stands absolutely still, trembling with silent rage.

The tumultuous relationship of Wendy and Stan has always been ever-present since their pre-teen days. Most of their friends stand divided - some believe the two are destined to be together despite all odds, whilst others barely bother concealing their frustration that they’re still together.  
It all takes a rather dramatic turn when Stan doubles over during English, splitting long, purple petals into his trembling palm.  
(There’s no blood, Kenny notes with numb surprise. No blood at all.)  
He recognises the flower - from barely-forgotten memories of the monster movies he devoured as a young teen.    
Wolfsbane.

“Of course I love you!” Wendy repeats, her voice trembling at the end. Her entire body is a tense curve, like a rubber band stretched to its limit.  

Stan’s eyes flash, wounded and beyond upset. “Then why am I still coughing these up, Wendy? Why?!”

“Well that’s not my fault, is it?!” she screams, the last scrap of her control finally snapping. The intensity is enough to stun any spectators into silence. “It’s _not my job_ to convince you that you’re worthy of love, Stan! Especially when you _constantly_ keep fighting me at every. Single. Turn!

And with that, she storms off, footsteps painfully loud against the concrete.  

Kenny knows Stan will be in good hands, between Kyle and Butters, who is already hurrying over.  
Perhaps that’s why his feet move him in the direction of Stark’s Pond, ducking beneath heavy branches until a hunched figure comes into sight, face hidden against her knees.    
They’re not close. He kind of wishes they were, as he slowly crouches down next to her, holding out the cleanest tissue from his pocket.  
They sit in silence for a long minute. One turns into three, then ten. Above them, the wind howls between the branches mournfully.

“...I do love him.” Wendy mutters, voice thick with tears still unshed. Her lips are pressed tightly together, white with the force of it.

“...I believe you.” is his cautious reply.

“...I’m not perfect, but I wouldn’t lie about something so important. And there he is. Shouting it for the world to hear.” she scoffs, her lower lip trembling dangerously. “How does he think that makes me feel? Because I sure as hell don’t feel loved.”

He cannot quite stop himself before his words are slipping free. “...you’re not coughing up petals though.”

She snorts. The noise comes across a little wet.

“That’s because I know the difference between unrequited love and...love that just doesn’t seem to _work_.”

Long fingers reach to pluck at the grass at her feet, tearing at the blades aimlessly.

“Just because the love is requited doesn’t mean it will work.” she murmurs. Her gaze is fixed on across the lake. “It doesn’t mean you will understand each other. That you’ll be able to love them the way they _need_ you to.”

Slowly, the blonde forces himself to take a deep breath. He swallows past the lump in his throat.

“...such a load of bullshit, huh?”

Wendy lets out the ugliest snort he had ever heard. When he glances over, there’s a ghost of a smile in the corner of her lips.

“You can say that again.”

\---

He wakes up to someone shaking him by the shoulders, calling his name in an increasingly agitated voice.

“Ken - _Ken_ ! Kenny - Kenneth, god _fucking_ dammit, wake the fuck up!”

With great effort, he forces his eyes open. His brother’s face, panicked, comes into focus after a few blinks.

_Ah. Haven’t managed to drown just quite yet._

“Thank fuck - come on, stay with me.” Strong arms are tugging him upright, fingers wiping at his mouth gingerly. “We’re gon’ to get you to the hospital.”

“ _No!_ ” he manages to croak out. With a flailing hand, he grabs onto Kevin’s nearest wrist. “Too...too much - “

“Fuck - Kenny, you were lying in a pool of your own fucking blood! There are fucking daffodils in your room everywhere!” his brother snaps. Under the grime and the bandage on his cheek, his face is ghostly pale. “How long has this shit been happening?”

He can only shrug, eyes fluttering shut. It’s too bright. Everything _hurts_.    
He needs to trick Kevin into leaving him alone long enough to injure himself grievously enough, and he needs to do it soon.

There’s a frustrated huff above him - and then there are arms sliding under his knees, body cradled close to a warm chest as he’s lifted up from the ground. Like a ragdoll. Like he’s five again.  
He does his best to squirm and protest as Kevin carries him to the bathroom, kicking the door closed behind him. He then dumps his younger brother into the bathtub, clothes and all.

“Stay still and _shut up_.”

Exhausted, Kenny obeys.

The minutes melt together, in a weirdly comforting cacophony of running water from the sink and Kevin’s soft swearing as he does his best to clean the blood away. Downstairs, the TV howls, barely concealing the voices of their parents.

“...so. How long has this been happening?”

“...a while.” Kenny mutters. The rag at his chin pauses.

“...You in love then?”

A flash of pain across his chest, familiar by now. A scrape in the back of his throat. A shrug. It earns him a frown and a tug of his earlobe.  

“Ken.”

“...mmmm.”

“Have you said anything to...her? Him?”

Another scrape, followed by the urge to cough. “No.”

“Why not?”

It’s like glass shards against his throat at this point. He swallows.

“There’s no point.”

For a long moment, Kevin just stares at him.

“Why the fuck not?” he scoffs. Out of the corner of his eyes, Kenny can see his fingers twitching for a cigarette. “You think you ain’t good enough to be loved back?”

He doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. He says so, words muffled through fingers pressed over his face.  

“Ken.” Kevin says, and there’s something in his tone that makes him meet his brother’s eyes. Something intense, unnerving. Urgent.

“Listen.” Rubber soles of cheap trainers squeak against the tiles as he kneels down next to the tub, mouth set in a grim line. “You shouldn’t be thinking about whether you’re worth being loved. That’s never up for debate.”

 _...What.  
_ His scepticism must bleed through his silence, judging by Kevin’s sigh.

“Look...where we come from - this - “ he waves a hand around to gesture around them: to the mould, to the cracked ceilings, to the blood stains they will never get rid of. Behind the closed door, there’s a muffled crash. “ - this is trash. There’s no changing that. But that doesn’t mean that we - that _you_ \- are trash, and don’t deserve the same respect as someone born with a silver spoon up their ass.”

Next to him, the water drip from the tap. In his ears, its noise is thunderous.

“Little one.” he says, and that’s just _not fair._  He hasn’t been called that since Karen was born, an unspoken, natural transition. She was the _little one,_  the precious one, the one whose happiness was the priority above all else. “If them don’t love you like you love them, that’s a damn shame. But you have to try. For _you._ And fucking _staying alive_.”

There’s a hand in his hair, brushing the bangs back from his eyes. They’re calloused, damp and trembling.

“If you don’t believe that much, then you’re right. There ain’t no point, because you’ll just keep vomiting those flowers up forever. No matter who loves you.”

Kenny opens his mouth. Helplessly, he tries to get his tongue to work.

He sees Stan’s stricken expression, his pain, his conviction. He hears Wendy’s words, shared in frustrated confidence.  
And through it all, Kyle. Sweet, cruel, oblivious Kyle.  
Just within reach, always just out of reach, looking ahead whilst Kenny chokes in his shadow  - without a choice, without a chance.

Somehow, Kevin’s embrace manages to be just as all-encompassing and comforting as it was twelve years ago.

“As it stands, you could have someone on their knees, with flowers in their hands and an orchestra at their back, singing your praises, and you would not believe that you are loved.” His voice is barely a murmur, tone soft and sad. “You’d be lyin’ next to them and you’d still be drowning, convinced you ain’t loved.”

The shards inside his throat press against his larynx, as if in a cruel confirmation.

“...It’s hard.” he manages.

“I know, kiddo. But it’s the bare minimum. It’s where you have to start.”

\---

“Earth to Kenny. Hello?”

The blonde jumps at the sharp sound of clapping in front of his face, blue eyes meeting stormy green.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve been somewhere else all day.” Kyle huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s up with you? Did you stay up till stupid hours again?”

There’s an underlying current of concern under all the ire.

As usual.

“You know, there is a thing as _too much reading,_  Kenny. Especially with trashy magazines and its _articles._ ”

_‘Don’t tell anyone. But. You’re...my favourite, Kenny.’_

“You keep this up and you’re going to end up needing glasses.”

_‘You’re always there when I need you.’_

“I know you’re determined about this and all, but a torchlight really doesn’t work as proper - “

“Hey. Kyle.”

“...What?”

“You look really good today.”

The effect is immediate. The other boy goes from irritated to flustered within a blink of an eye.

“Where - where did that come from?!” he demands.

Kenny shrugs, eyes wide. He cannot stop staring. Involuntarily, his lips tug into a smile. “Just stating the obvious.”

Kyle’s stare is long and flustered. With a scoff, he reaches to grab Kenny by the wrist, tugging him to his feet.

“Come on. I’m freezing my ass off here.”

He glances down as he’s practically dragged towards the Broflovski residence -  at the fingers gripping his wrist, bright green wool against worn orange synthetics.  
Slowly, with every step, he allows himself a deep, deep breath. Permits a single spark of contentment to settle in his chest as the flush on Kyle’s neck makes no sign of disappearing.

You have to start somewhere.

\---

 

AN:

Boy I love making life difficult for myself don’t I

Something a little different this time. I promise the last two fills for the week will be lighter and happier. Title is from the [Garbage song of the same title.](https://youtu.be/4OdTBCgqRt4)

Check out all the [ main blog for K2 Week on Tumblr ](https://k2-week.tumblr.com/) and also the [ tag! ](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/sp-k2-week) And whilst you're there, [hit me up!   
](https://lwtis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
